by G S Johnston
She held her breath. Nothing could be said.
‘I challenge you to say you have forgotten me,’ he said.
How could she make such an assertion? And how could he be so cruel to ask it? He bit his lower lip, rocked back and forth slightly and returned his gaze to her.
‘Italo needs me,’ she said.
She moved to pass him. He reached out, grabbed her forearm. She couldn’t move against his warmth through the thin fabric of her shirt. She pulled away, but he wouldn’t let go. She met his eyes, cold and dark but alive. She tugged again, and with that momentum he moved into her as if she’d pulled him. She smelt him, breathed the air about him. The nights without sleep collapsed their full weight on her. She had no more strength. He’d not let go. She sunk to the carpet of ferns and seedlings where once his hut had stood and exploded and burned.
And he followed, with no resistance, to the soft floor, his weight heavy on her. She ran her hands along his spine, felt the hard ridges of muscle. Nothing had changed. No time had passed. She inhaled the scent at his neck. She kissed his cheek, searched for his mouth. He pulled her blouse from the lip of her skirt. His palm seared her abdomen as it forced towards her breast. All shattered. The exhaustion lifted. She thought of Clara’s warnings about Flavio and the children. She thought of Italo, bruised and bloodied. She didn’t want this.
‘Stop,’ she said.
But he continued, his mouth at hers so she couldn’t speak, his hands at her waist. She fought him, pushed her hands against his chest, beat at it. But he continued. She squirmed, tried to move under his weight. But with just one hand on her shoulder, he pinned her. He lifted himself, freeing his belt and pants with quick jerking movements. He lifted her dress, tore her underpants.
‘Don’t do this,’ she said.
But he wouldn’t hear, wouldn’t meet her eyes. He meant to have her. While he was still above her, his hand caught in the fabric, and she raised her leg as fast and hard as she could. Her knee caught his groin. He groaned, forced harder on her shoulder, and she thought under such stress it might break. His eyes met her. His other hand came to the earth. She pushed onto his shoulders and he rolled away.
She was on her feet.
‘You fucking bitch,’ he yelled.
But she was away. She wouldn’t look back.
‘You’ve ruined everything.’
Waves of confusion, guilt, regret, disillusion and fear pushed her. She ran, doing her best to rearrange her clothes. When she arrived at the house, she ran to her office and locked the door. She looked in the mirror, straightened her hair. The tears stained her face. Nothing had been marked or torn. Except herself. This would worsen everything. How could she ever ask him to keep their secret? To never speak with Flavio? Perhaps Clara was right, and her only path was to confess it all to Italo and Flavio. Be that as it may, now wasn’t the time to consider it.
It was after six when she re-entered Italo’s room.
‘Where have you been?’ Clara said, terror in her eyes.
Italo trembled, a wave passing from his shoulders and chest and through the rest of his body. It was slow at first but then gathered pace.
Clara held his shoulders. ‘He’s burning.’
Amelia took a wet cloth and wiped his forehead over his chest, along his arms. The trembling increased. His legs began to jump. Amelia held his ankles, forced them into the mattress.
What could she do?
‘Telephone the doctor,’ Amelia said.
But the tremoring increased.
‘Hold him still. If you let go, he’ll fall and hurt himself.’
Amelia gripped harder. His body arched and fell. ‘Italo,’ she said. ‘You cannot die. You cannot leave me.’
But he thrashed harder.
‘I’m sorry for everything. I love you.’
She’d never said such a thing. She’d never recognised it. It wasn’t love she’d never felt for him. It just wasn’t what she’d expected love to be. But now it was failing, rising and falling, ripping from her, it was most keen.
His body froze, arched in open spasm, his face screwed till it looked to break. And then the tension released, collapsed. His face relaxed. Amelia breathed to relieve her own heart rate. Italo was peaceful. She looked to his lungs. He no longer breathed. She looked at Clara, who released his shoulders, straightened herself.
Then Italo sighed, peaceful and contented.
And then he inhaled. And exhaled and then inhaled again.
‘It’s time for the water,’ Clara said.
They raised his head. He opened his eyes. He sipped the water.
‘More,’ he said, his voice a gravel whisper.
Amelia looked at Clara, who nodded. She tilted the glass again. His Adam’s apple moved. So they continued, for the hours left of the night. By the first light of morning, they allowed him to swallow three or four sips at a time. The more water he drank, the more his temperature came to normal, as if the water quenched the fire. By midday he’d urinated, as dark as black tea. But he’d turned the corner.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
With each hour, Italo became stronger. Despite the terribleness of the situation, the utter, utter tiredness and the thoughts – fears, really – of victimisation, Amelia pressed on. Within a day they added salty, clear soups to the regimen and then ribollita. He had no appetite and forced himself. But in a sure sign of his returning health, he listed farming chores, which she assured him she’d already done. His worried face eased to a smile.
‘What are you laughing at?’ she said.
‘My aunts chose well.’
She bit her lip and had to look from him to the view. If only he knew the truth. Was now the time to confess to him of Fergus? He was still weak, and she meant him no harm, and she was sure he knew. Perhaps it was a just time.
‘Do you think of home?’ he said.
She turned back to him. ‘What would make you ask such a thing?’
‘You talk of your school, but it’s a long while since you’ve mentioned Italy.’
‘Is it?’ She thought for some moments. ‘How strange. I think of it constantly; sometimes the smallest thing tugs at my heart the hardest. The other evening, I thought of the twilight; do you remember it?’
He nodded.
‘It would go on forever.’
‘All things did when we were young,’ he said. ‘I’m very grateful to you.’
She breathed in. Now wasn’t the time. She went to his bed and kissed his forehead.
For something short of a week, she’d done no work. She wrote to Flavio and told him what had occurred but cautioned any need of return at this stage. And that evening she took Marta and Mauro to Italo’s room. In those dark days she’d had little to do with them, but they’d sensed something was wrong and had curtailed their behaviour for Meggsy. Mauro told Italo of his work at school, and Marta danced like a fairy for him, and he laughed and laughed, and they all clapped their hands in time with her. Marta was an angel, a tonic. Amelia would bring her every day to see Italo; she brought life to his eyes.
Amelia and Clara took turns in the nursing, but when Amelia wasn’t with him, despite her body’s cries for sleep, she had the farm work. She hadn’t mentioned to Clara her encounter with Fergus, and nor would she. There was enough to think about. The whole incident was best forgotten. But how do you erase such a thing? And Clara hadn’t brought up any plan of action to safeguard the children from Fergus. Amelia was pleased for the quiet.
Three days after Italo had turned the corner, Meggsy failed to appear for work. The first sign of it was that Marta hadn’t had her breakfast. At first Amelia thought little of it; sometimes Meggsy had things to deal with in the village but usually arranged the free time. But after she’d fed Marta and left her with Clara in Italo’s room, she went to her quarters, a single-room cottage at the base of the hill below the house. There wasn’t a sign of her. All her clothes were gone. She’d not asked for leave or said anything. There was a note on the table.
Mrs Amedeo,
I can’t continue in a house like this.
Meggsy Dawson
Amelia walked from the cottage. Damn her. She was on a good wicket – her own cottage and each Sunday free. In a house like this … What on earth did she mean by such a thing? Amelia had been more than accommodating, and she’d not now be insulted. She paid her far more than Maria Pastore ever had and demanded far less.
When she entered the house, Clara was in the entrance hall. She showed her the note.
‘Where would she go?’ Clara said.
Despite all the years she’d worked, Amelia had never asked of her life. ‘She has family in Tamworth or Tenterfield. Somewhere.’
‘We should notify them.’
‘How?’ She motioned to the letter. ‘What does she mean by that?’
Clara gave back the note. ‘Can you not see? The rules have changed. We’re Italian. She’s British. I’m sure she was under immense pressure to quit. Forced, almost.’
Amelia soused her anger. She wouldn’t be judged, but moreover, where would she find another girl? In the valley, help was difficult, good help next to impossible. If there was ever a time she needed another pair of hands she could trust, this was it. In her office, she read the note again. Perhaps Clara was right – it was motivated by someone else. Meggsy just didn’t have these thoughts. How would she deal with Italo and the children? Thank God Clara was there.
She had just settled to work when she heard a car brake hard on the gravel. She didn’t recognise it. Who could it be? But then Grossi walked slowly towards the gate. With Italo being sick, she’d not had a moment for the school. She should have sent a communiqué to Grossi. But surely, he knew of the attack. She hurried from her office and was descending the stair when he knocked at the door.
‘Good morning,’ he said, and smiled. ‘I wonder if we may talk.’
She stepped back. There was gravity to him. She escorted him to the lounge room. He walked with the same stride, indifferent to his surroundings. Without asking her, he sat in a lounge chair near the window, Italo’s chair. She offered him tea or coffee, but he refused, which pleased her, as she wanted to know immediately what he was about. She sat. He enquired of Italo’s health, and she told him he was still very weak.
‘This wasn’t done by locals,’ he said.
‘Italo didn’t recognise them. But they spoke Italian.’
‘There are Italians who don’t see the greatness of what’s happening in Italy. Babinda’s been free of them for many years.’
‘It rather put an end to our celebration,’ she said.
‘There’ll be greater victories, I can assure you.’
Clara and Marta came to the room. Clara greeted Grossi with coldness, Marta with suspicion, but Clara remained on the far sofa with Marta.
‘Have you reported this to the police?’ he said.
Amelia glanced at Clara. ‘Italo saw no point. And didn’t want attention drawn.’
‘I’m pleased. We can deal with it more sensitively and less … publicly. I’ve started enquiries. We’ll find them.’
Amelia inhaled deeply.
‘How will you find them?’ Clara said, her features sharp. ‘And what will you do to them?’
‘We have contacts. We will deal with them.’
He stood, this fact the primary assertion of his visit. Amelia and Clara rose and followed him to the door, leaving Marta on the sofa.
‘Give Italo my regards,’ he said, turning towards his car.
‘With all this drama’, Amelia said, ‘we’ve had no time to devote to the school.’
‘I believe Signora Burattini has been active,’ he said, ‘collecting signatures.’
So it was true. Amelia occluded her feelings of being slighted. ‘All effort helps.’
‘It will all be there when you return,’ Grossi said. He turned to Clara. ‘I was wondering if we may meet.’
Clara stepped back, her face white. ‘I’m sorry. Life’s busy here. I’ve no time.’
What a ham-fisted fool he was to make such a demand on a woman in her state.
Grossi coloured. ‘Another time,’ he said, and left.
Amelia closed the door. The two women stood in silence, looking at one another. They heard his sure tread on the gravel, his car door, the engine start and move away, the strain of the motor fading.
‘I’ll go and check on Italo,’ Clara said, and moved towards the stair.
‘I’m sorry he pesters you.’
‘His advances are the smallest way he worries me.’
Amelia breathed. She and Clara hadn’t really spoken since they’d argued about Fergus. Clara had withdrawn. She saw that clearly now in retrospect.
‘Are you all right?’ Amelia said.
Clara’s gaze was cold, but she nodded and began to climb the stairs. Amelia didn’t want her to leave, and said, by way of engaging her, ‘Why would he allow Maria Burattini to work on the petition?’
Clara stopped, something impatient in the drop of her shoulders. ‘He wants to control it. Completely.’
Clara called to Marta, and the two continued on the stairs.
Amelia remained in the entrance hall. Damn Clara and her damn condemnation. She opened the front door, stepped out into the day, away from the house. She walked down the hill, out into the endless aisles transecting the fields. The earth was ploughed in neat furrows. Fortunately, the setts had been planted before the attack on Italo. She knelt to inspect one section, and then another. Some had started to sprout new growth, small green reeds extending from the earth. It amazed her something so small grew to so much with so little encouragement. But in Babinda, the sugarcane was the only thing that thrived. She and Italo survived, she couldn’t deny that, but only with their shoulder pushed hard against the wall of opposition. The cane grew effortlessly.
She knelt. A reed had grown in under a large sod of earth. If she left it, it would continue to grow sideways. It may eventually right itself, but its growth would always be marred. With all care, all delicacy, she lifted the sod. The shoot remained flattened, partly embedded in the earth, sickly, a sunless colour. She righted it, broke the sod and packed the earth around the reed, rendering it erect.
She should be thankful for small mercies. The crop was growing, but nonetheless care needed to be taken. She scanned the exterior of the field. She expected Fergus, but since that day there’d been no sign of him, not even in the village. And she’d had no report, not that she was overly privy to such things, of how he fared taking over from Oisin. Clara’s concerns were valid, but there was a good chance an argument would ensue with Oisin and Fergus would leave the valley. Yet Oisin was old, and although she’d not seen him in many years, reports were his fire had gone. It worried her, Fergus staying in the valley. She’d spurned him, no doubt injured more than just his pride. And as Clara had said, Flavio may see him, see himself in him. There could then only be questions. But she was powerless.
She sighed. She’d lost so much time, and lost time irritated her – it could never be recovered. She marched from the fields to her office.
That evening, Italo came to dinner and ate a small meal, his first solid food at the table in nearly a week. Mauro hadn’t seen him out of bed and seemed shaken by his frail and gaunt appearance. Marta did her best to entertain him. Italo ate slowly, only the smallest pieces of mutton.
‘It’s perfect,’ he said, ‘but I have no appetite.’
‘Just eat one more piece,’ Clara said.
And he did try, but at the end there was more on his plate than he’d eaten. After they’d finished, Amelia excused herself, leaving Italo and Clara to talk. She put Marta to bed, read to her until she was asleep and then kissed her forehead. In her office, she began to work. If only all of life’s equations were so easily solved.
But this evening, despite the urgency, the ledgers wouldn’t hold her. She was tired, and her concentration fluttered over the list of what she had to do rather than any specific task. T
he look on Mauro’s face at dinner had said it all – Italo was shaken, so much weight peeled from him. At best, it would take many more weeks for him to recover fully. It was a miracle he’d survived. If only Flavio had finished school. Perhaps he should just leave and return to the farm? But it was wrong to interrupt his education. Perhaps she should hire a manager? But she knew no-one, and trusting a stranger would be reckless. And then the question of how to finance such a position. For the first time in sixteen years, she had no hold on that, the ledgers reconciled far behind the current date. Not knowing their exact financial position frightened her.
There was a knock at the door. She called out to come in.
‘I’m disturbing you? …’ Clara said.
‘These are disturbing me.’ She motioned to the ledgers. ‘Sit down.’
Clara walked to a lounge chair to the side of the desk. It was covered with books, and Amelia told her to stack them with the rest on the floor.
‘I like the silence in this room,’ Amelia said. ‘What a pity you and Paolo didn’t move here when we’d first discussed it.’
Clara nodded. ‘Things would be very different.’ Clara placed her hand to her mouth and Amelia felt she may have been too bold. ‘But Paolo couldn’t imagine living in the country.’
Clara retreated into her thoughts, and Amelia left her there.
‘How are you feeling?’ Clara said.
‘Shaken. Exhausted. As you must be.’
‘No more tired than usual.’
‘I can’t thank you enough.’
‘Nothing more than you’ve done for me.’
‘My chaperone.’ Amelia smiled, but Clara’s face remained stern. ‘Something’s troubling you and has been for days.’
‘During those long nights with Italo, I had time to think. The exhaustion brought me … a certain clarity.’ Clara breathed out and looked directly at her. ‘I won’t be part of the women’s fascist organisation.’
Amelia stiffened. ‘Why not?’
‘Italo was nearly murdered—’
‘He was attacked by anti-fascists. You heard him say that. And Grossi agreed.’
‘But the attack was a result of fascism. It divides people. Violently.’
